i'm the asshole? i'm outta here. i wouldn't eat here, i would never eat here anyway.
The majority of my friends understand that I am an asshole (prick, jerk, not very nice, etc.) at times. However, it seems that some people are still having trouble figuring this out, so I put a sign on my door to clear up any remaining confusion. I suppose that I could offer up explanations as to why I act the way I do, or maybe enter some sort of rehabilitation program...assholes anonymous or whatever. "My name is Josh and I am an asshole. As long as I can remember, I have been taking things personally that I probably shouldn't. I get pissed off easily and blah blah blah." But what does it really matter? I'll offer up false apologies, everything will be fine, and then I'll start having the same stupid fights with the same people. Boring.
Instead, people that hate me (if only momentarily) should go listen to how this lady talks to her son. Afterwards, they (YOU) can call me up and see what a sweetheart I am in comparison. Happily ever after.
'till bill cosby does another picture page with you
A few weeks before I was forced into my current state of social suicide by Ben Tietz's erratic driving, I escaped the humid confines of Chico for a few days. Since most people that come to this site are too dumb to read, I have magically transformed that weekend into pictures.
I really thought that with all the time I have on my hands now, I would be writing a lot more. But the truth is, typing one-handed/left-handed sucks. Besides, since I don't leave the house anymore (except to pick up secretundergroundemomixtapes), I don't have anything to write about. I could write about what I do while lying around the house, but that's boring. Well, I guess most of the stuff I write about is boring, so you might not even notice the difference.
Today I woke up at 3am, and stared at the ceiling for a few hours until I realized that I was actually awake and not just having a really uneventful dream. After rolling out of bed, I made my way downstairs and zombied out as QVC told me that I need to spend more money on juicers and skin-exfoliating treatments. I then spent the rest of the morning watching Italian Dave organize his dork cards into even little piles. Sigh...
Maybe once I am able to leave the house for more twenty minutes at a time, I will resurrect my ability to make you all love me through the power of the written word. Until then, I will be sprawled out in my room, being waited on patiently (hopefully) while I try to steal kisses from girls as they read to me (probably).
Lately, it seems that no matter how hard I try, my weekends have been nothing short of life-threatening (in a take my own life due to extreme boredom sort of way). Even this past weekend, with all of its promises of youthful escapades, fell far short of expectations. Of course, the blame for that lies entirely on certaindudes that cannot operate even the most simplistic of communication devices, such as telephones and doorknobs. If not for the king of all music and his trusty sidekick, this weekend might have turned out to be...well, worse than it was I guess (ps...lunch with you was amazing as well...but that's par for the course isn't it?). However, if the smartest people I know are to be believed, this weekend might actually live up to its own hype. Behold the breakdown...
Friday: Wet-nap nerds all over the world, hand in hand with more attractive nerds ("can we go watch the trailer online?") no longer have to play flying-broomstick make believe to pass the time. After counting down the seconds since the last piece of similar drivel was published, kids who still believe in dragons can finally spend all day locked up in their rooms, orgasming over the newest scar-face novel.
Friday is also the release date for the most unnecessary movie remake of all time. For shame, Tim Burton, for shame.
However, for those people who are more interested in things that matter, this Friday night at Matthew's Cafe is the local show of the year. Never before have foursuchamazingbands played together under one God-loving roof. Girls that don't eat enough and the boys that love them are pumped. Hell, some people are even coming from as far away as Santa Barbara to view the carnage (and them be the lucky ones).
Saturday: True love has finally blossomed for Nate Horton, the greatest keyboard player ever (I would link to him, but the kid doesn't spend enough time on the internet to have a cyber-home). Unfortunately for all involved, Nate and his girl Tacie are going to be married in the hottest hell-hole of a town north of...that other hot place. But it makes no difference to me because Nate said that I could wear next to nothing, so its cool.
That one guy that is waaaay smarter than me keeps telling me that the real show of the year is on Saturday at Off Limits. I don't know if I believe him or not, but I will probably check it out just in case. But you have to old enough to drink beer (legally) to show up there.
"I hope you're not upset, they're only words. And words don't hurt at all. Didn't you know?"--as good as gospel--
Dear People of the Internet,
I thought that I had already been over this with you, but just in case you weren't paying attention the first time...
1) Do not take everything I write literally or seriously. From time to time, I will employ a device known as "sarcasm." I understand that there are people in the world that are too stupid to understand sarcasm, but I do not think that any of you (my faithful readers) fit into this category. See? Sarcasm.
2) Most of the time (unless I "x" out your eyes...and sorry about that, by the way) if I write about you or hint about you or link to you or whatever to do with you...I LIKE YOU. I don't necessarily mean it in some sexual way (although...), but I don't generally waste time typing about people that I despise. We can be friends even after I mention you in some unfashionable way (promise).
3) Stop arguing with me over the internet/email/myspace/etc. I have a phone. Call it. Or, if you don't mind looking at my hideous complexion, you can find me at Normal St. on Tuesdays and LaSalles on Saturdays...and holed up in my room most other days (social suicide).
I awoke today to find myself in another dimension. My transportation to this new existence would have gone entirely unnoticed (maybe even preferred) if not for a few notable inconsistencies.
For example, I weighed myself this morning (because I am health conscious like that) and discovered that over the course of one night, I lost twenty pounds. At first I thought that perhaps my doppelganger had finally taken over my body, but quickly realized that the inevitable melding of myself and my space-twin is probably not going to cause me to lose any weight (sorry Daniel). And just when I thought that I had found the logical solution to my weight dilemma ( getting a little too carried away with my John Basedow workouts), I found another troubling clue.
I am one year older than I should be. The aging was instantaneous, but apparent nonetheless. Even as I type this, I can feel the sickly effects of growing old (and up) permeating into both my bones and my soul. But more importantly, I can see proof of it on myspace. No matter how hard I try to remedy the situation, my myspace age will not revert back to what it should be...26 or bust, I guess.
You know, the more that I think about it, maybe I am not in another dimension at all. More than likely, brain-sucking aliens are attempting to take over the human race, making everyone skinnier and older in order to alleviate any attempts on our part to foil their plans of...uhh, brain-suckage.
ps...I fixed the age thing. Better luck next time, brain-suckers.
I cannot catch a break. Directly on the heels of Joel's departure and the slowly fading drama involving my fair-skinned friend with benefits, comes the biggest heartbreak of the summer (thus far). Max Bemis, self-proclaimed crazy person and frontman for Say Anything, has pulled his band off the bill of nearly every show of their current headlining tour. Citing the ever popular and always valid reason, "due to circumstances beyond our control," Max has left the other bands on the tour, Emmanuel and Circa Survive, to fend for themselves. Undoubtedly, high-school kids around the nation, whose affections lie more with silly-ass haircuts than with good music, will still show up in droves...but not me. I've seen the kind of chicks that hang out at Circa Survive shows.
In other news, as good as gospel has recently written a slew of the best songs ever, with salivating titles such as "p.s. this is spiteful" and "we're nothing if not consistent." Undoubtedly, these songs will soon bring fame and fortune to all involved, but the unwashed masses (you) will have to wait until Brains gets back from Almanor to hear them (protools and all). Until then, you could always just show up at the ugly-ass singer's house and pay him five bucks to play you whatever you want.
In other news (yes, I am repetitive...get over it), my birthday is soon. Buy me something. Or, if you are one of the girls that I continually obsess over (or vice-versa), feel free to come over next Sunday...we can make out.
